“But it is abominable to make her lodgers stand kicking their heels in the blazing sun, while she is haggling over a penn’orth of onions!” said he, with another lunge at the door. Annie meanwhile had been prowling about. “Do you think you could open the kitchen window, Mr. Cooke?” she asked, dubiously. “We might get in there. It isn’t far from the ground.” It was a small window, just low enough for him to reach the fastening easily with his pocket-knife. In a few minutes he had pushed the fastening aside, scrambled up on to the sill, opened the window, and got in amid the crash of timber. “What have you done?” asked Annie, anxiously, as he appeared again, disguised in flour and paste. “I’ve fallen into a lot of things, it seems,” said he, “and I believe I’ve sprained my ankle.” “Oh, my roly-poly pudding!” cried Annie, not heeding his ailments in the unhappy discovery. “I’m afraid it is done for now,” answered Mr. Cooke, as he removed the body of the uncooked pudding from his sleeve. “It will do for a poultice for me, however,” he said, cheerfully; “and Mrs. Briggs will put it down in both our bills, so it won’t be wasted. Wait, I’ll give you a chair to help you up.” She got in; and they both began to look about for something to make dinner of. Annie went to the cupboard, while Mr. Cooke opened a door and fell down two steps into the back kitchen with a cry of joy. He had knocked his head against a skinny-looking bird, already plucked, which was hanging down from the ceiling. But Annie shook her head contemptuously when she saw it. “It is one of Mrs. Briggs’ prehistoric chickens, and it would want a lot of preparation before we could cook it. Besides, I don’t know how, and the fire is out.” So they hunted again, and, not finding anything but bones and Mr. Cooke’s cheese, Aubrey went out to buy chops, having said doubtfully that he thought he could cook a chop, but wasn’t sure, while Miss Langton set to work to make a fire. When she came back, after a rather long absence, they were both radiant; for Annie, as she let him in, told him in great delight that she had made a lovely fire, and found where the plates, and knives, and forks were kept, and he pulled out of his pockets a number of small parcels and a gridiron, and produced from under his arm a huge cookery book, which he laid triumphantly down upon a bag containing cheese-cakes. “The baker’s wife lent me this; so now we can have fifteen courses if we like. This will tell us how to make a _vol-au-vent à la financière_, or a _fricandeau de veau_ with _sauce piquante_, or----” “But it won’t tell us how to cook a chop without burning it to a cinder, or how to boil a potato when I can’t find where they are kept,” said Annie, taking up the gridiron and turned it over thoughtfully. “Why, I can show you what to do with that!” said he, with superiority.